The Perfect Essay
by Whit Litt
Summary: What I wrote for English class last year, after reading the Giver. This essay is inspired by Thomas Moore's Utopia as well, and the idea of unachievable perfection. No true crossovers, just inspiration.


The Perfect Essay  
>English Class<br>Whitney Little

The Perfect luminescence of the Perfect sun brushed My Perfect windowpane, quite Perfectly ; at least as Perfectly as I am told. As We are told, It is Perfect . Everything is Perfect , We are Perfect, I am Perfect , Nothing is Perfect . I took the Perfect Sheets of my Perfect mattress, and stood up on the floors, made of the highest quality Perfect , the best Perfect that One can find.

I put one foot after another, walking in a Perfectly straight line, step my step, each pace firm and steady, exactly the width as My hips, with a 1:3 ratio as My foot. I turn the Perfectly brushed doorknob at a 180-degree turn and push with just enough force so that My Perfect form could easily exit through.

Outside, a Perfect day, as there always was and always will be. At the temperature of Perfect , It appears that We will have a scheduled chance of Perfection , sunny with a slight breeze, a mass of vibrant blue only to be interrupted by three Perfectly shaped clouds, each arranged in randomly in programmed patterns.

I walk down the Perfectly paved streets, and see 18 houses, exactly the same as my own; Perfect . The roofs on all of Our Perfect houses meet at precisely 135 degree angles, each white Pickett fence stands in front of each of the Perfectly manicured lawns of vivid greenery. Three fit jogging Women, each with imPerfects playing the same fast beat songs one uses for jogging, each with Perfect baby strollers containing their Perfect Babies.

I remember my baby….I am succumbed by a strange notion….No, a _negative_ thought. A _wrong_ thought. A _feeling_. An _emotion._ It's…imperfect. We, as a People, will not tolerate such imperfect disruption would poison Society. I banish the thought from my mind, however throbbing of internal discomfort has not subsided, as with usual imperfect things, an aftertaste of guilt. 

I continue to walk in a predicted manner, but a slightly quickened pace. I see more houses, with white fresh-painted fences, Perfectly manicured, vivid green yards, with precisely 135 degree angles, above the roofs was the Perfect stretch of blue with three Perfect clouds, and in front of the house were Perfectly paved sidewalks, with Perfect joggers, with a Perfect song for running with their Perfect little Babies, without any birth defects….

Another imperfect thought.

I walk faster.

_I_will not think or feel such dreadful, imperfect things! My Perfect heart's beating increases above the normal perfect speed, 80 bmp, now to 90, 95. My chest rises and falls, accelerating by the minute. I look around frantically, and try to calm Myself with the familiarities, Perfect sky, Perfect homes, Perfect People, Perfect Babies…

I crash into a stroller, containing one. I hear an upset voice, but a controlled, Perfect amount of anger, which seems very far away. My eyes fix upon the Baby's Perfectly proportional, golden ratio face, without any sort of a disfigurement, just like all of the People.

Something inside my Perfect form twangs a very imperfect thought. I loose control, and I close my eyes. 

I regain a consciousness state …and appear to be in my house, I know its my house, I just haven't been here for years. An electrical burning odor assaults my nose, the computer of which held my Perfect reality. I look outside. Its raining. The baby, my baby, is crying. It is imperfect, everything is imperfect, we are imperfect, I am imperfect, and nothing is Perfect .

_Author__'__s__Note_  
>The idea I had behind this piece is that the society was so corrupt in commercialism and self-esteem that they changed the meaning and potency of the word perfect to an everyday usage. I showed this by making Perfect , a sort of brand of perfection that is everything. The brand within a brand, "imPerfects", show the reality of the People, that no matter that everything including themselves are supposedly perfect, they all have their flaws, and thoughts and emotions. Reading these parts, it is designed to feel dull and monotonous, as a result of what I think it would feel like living in a perfect (or Perfect ) world. I also capitalized nouns referring to this imaginary civilization, as the People are very image conscience, idolizing themselves. In the end, the moral to the story is the only way to be perfect is not to be real.<p> 


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